


Disbelief

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 17:44:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15124622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Mycroft and Greg are stuck in the Diogenes while a terrorist threat is cleared. They find something platonic to do - something that won't upset the careful balance between them. And then the conversation turns personal.





	Disbelief

Greg stared at his reflection. It was odd, he thought, looking at yourself in the mirror. The face that looked back at him somehow didn’t quite gel with the mental image he kept.

The hair was the same, of course, and the colour of his eyes, the shape of his nose…but it was the details. The lines that radiated from his eyes were deeper, the pallor of his skin under the naturally olive complexion more pronounced than he imagined. The bags under his eyes were permanent by now, and it had been so long since he’d cracked a real smile…Pulling back to widen the view didn’t help, either.

In his mind, he remembered himself as a young man, fit from football and his regular runs, without the extra kilos age had stealthily added to his frame. The terrible diet and hours of paperwork hadn’t helped his cause either. While some muscle tone remained, there was a layer of softness overlying it all, far more pronounced at his belly than he’d like. Even here alone in his flat, he couldn’t muster the energy to pull his gut in; how on earth could he do it for long enough to impress someone?

Sighing, Greg picked up his beer, taking another swig even as his brain provided the helpful information that alcohol did a host of bad things to his body, particularly in the fluid retention/belly fat area. It had been ages since he’d scored a shag, even longer since there had been anything other than the minimal interest required for a one night stand.

God, he felt old.

Too old to date, too entrenched in his ways to meet anyone new and accommodate them in his life, or expect that he accommodate him. He felt a wave of despair at the loss of his marriage, though it was close to eight years ago now. Five since the breakup, but three years before that had been essentially marking time.

So now he stood here, pathetically middle-aged with more scars than the average man and barely a thing to recommend him. He was a passing good singer and knew his way around the bedroom, for sure, but a resume boasting extensive experience giving head wouldn’t eclipse the fact that he simply wasn’t attractive any more.

+++

Mycroft never looked at his reflection except for purely practical reasons – ensuring his haircut was even, applying the anti-freckle cream he persevered with despite its mediocre results. He checked his tie and pocket square of course, but otherwise, the mirrors in his house went ignored, few as they were.

It was a fact, much as the Queen preferred Earl Grey to English Breakfast, that Mycroft Holmes was the object of nobody’s desires. Never had been, to his knowledge, and his knowledge was extensive indeed.

He had been told as much on a regular basis growing up, the horrors of ginger hair and freckles manifesting themselves well before puberty. His ballooning weight, the hallmark of an emotional eater, had only given ammunition to those already sneering at his appearance.

It wasn’t until he subjugated his emotions that Mycroft lost sufficient weight to appear in public without visibly repulsing the general public. His acquisition of an excellent tailor and a wardrobe of three piece suits had helped. There had been instances in which he had been professionally bound to provide compliments, insinuate an attraction for political gain; the flash of revulsion in poorly guarded eyes had cemented his understanding of himself as a sexless creature.

As with all uncomfortable truths, Mycroft Holmes accepted it while refusing to acknowledge any emotion attached to any part of its existence. The fact was clear – he simply was not an attractive person.

+++

“What the-” Darkness had fallen without warning, emergency lighting flaring almost immediately. Greg’s fork was halfway to his mouth, and before he could say more than two words Mycroft’s phone was out, the latter staring intently at his screen.

“My apologies, Detective Inspector,” said Mycroft. “It appears the Diogenes Club has been the focus of a terrorist attack.”

His tone was far too matter of fact for such a pronouncement, and Greg was proud of himself for his restraint. A single raised eyebrow asked for further information.

“The emergency protocols have been enacted, hence the emergency lighting. All doors will be locked, pending resolution of the situation, so I regret that we will be unable to leave for the present moment.”

“We’re stuck here?” Greg asked. Of all the odd facts he’d just been presented with, the idea of Mycroft knowing immediately what was happening was the least odd. He was accustomed to Mycroft knowing everything the instant it happened. This was no different.

 “Until the situation is resulted, as I said. Unfortunately there is a radio blackout, so you won’t be able to make contact with the Yard, though I am certain Anthea will inform your superiors of your presence here.”

“If there’re no phones, how are you…” Greg trailed off, indicating the phone still in Mycroft’s hand.

“I have the ability to…circumvent the blackout, if necessary,” Mycroft replied. He placed his phone back on the table. “For reasons of discretion, however, I will make no further attempts to contact Anthea. She has assured me the situation is under control, pending the removal of several unidentified packages in the foyer. Our safest course of action is to remain here until we are notified of its conclusion.”

Greg blinked. “What about the bathroom?” he asked, feeling stupid but genuinely wanting to know. He’d had a couple of glasses of wine, anticipating a difficult conversation about Sherlock which had not eventuated, and the need for relief from his full bladder was beginning to make itself known.

“That particular door is not subject to lockdown procedures,” replied Mycroft. A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. “After the uproar in 2004, bathroom doors are no longer fitted with automatic locks.”

Greg wanted to know what had happened in 2004, but the intimation was clear enough. Either way, he was grateful he wouldn’t have to consider urinating into an empty wine bottle. “Oh well,” he said. “We won’t starve to death. Should be a few hours, though, if they’re checking for bombs.”

“I believe the threat is considered of a biological nature rather than an incendiary device,” Mycroft told him. “However your assessment is correct – we will likely be here several hours. Again, my apologies.”

“Not your fault,” said Greg. “Better than catching a lung full of anthrax or whatever.” He pushed back from the table, heading for the bathroom. Best to get it done so he could relax, or approximate it at least.

When he returned, Mycroft was no longer sitting at the small dining table. He had instead moved to the sofa, which proved far more comfortable than it looked. The coffee table held water as well as wine, and Greg thought it prudent to hydrate before he maintained the gentle buzz he’d picked up from the earlier wine.

“So,” Greg asked, when he’d settled, looking at Mycroft. “What do we do for three hours, then?”

Mycroft looked uncertain. They had no electronic devices and this room, while clearly set aside for Mycroft’s personal use, was not equipped with a bookshelf, games cupboard or anything else that might provide sufficient entertainment  for two grown men who didn’t know each other all that well.

“If you have a suggestion, Detect-”

Greg held up one hand. “Mycroft, my name is Greg. I will accept variations if you like, but if we’re going to be stuck here together, please stop calling me Detective Inspector. Makes me feel like I’m at work, when I’m definitely not.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied. “If you have any suggestions, Greg, I would be open to hearing them.”

“I’m thinking,” Greg replied, looking around the room. There was the bar, of course, but he didn’t think that would go over too well – drinking for three hours would be a bad idea. Neither of them had brought their laptops, not that he had anything worth watching stored on the hard drive. As his eyes drifted to the desk, and the paper thereon, a hesitant grin suddenly came to his face.

“How long since you’ve played battleships, Mycroft?”

The other man blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Battleships,” Greg repeated, hauling himself up from the sofa and over to the desk. He helped himself to several sheets of paper and two pens before returning to the sofa, handing some of the materials to Mycroft. “You and me.”

At Mycroft’s disbelieving look, Greg held his relaxed expression, feigning a level of ease he did not feel. _This is awkward as fuck, but I’m not sitting here for three hours in bloody silence,_ he vowed to himself.

As Greg dragged an armchair opposite the sofa, Mycroft slowly picked up the pen. Before he drew anything, he stood, and Greg thought for a moment he was refusing to play. Only when he returned with two bound, hardcover manuscripts did Greg understand.

“For your to lean on,” Mycroft explained, and Greg nodded. They sat opposite each other now, each drawing up the grid of squares, tentative questions about the parameters of the game the only conversation for ten minutes. Finally, Greg sat back, satisfied with the arrangement of his vessels.

“You first,” he offered, Mycroft pursed his lips, looking down at his grid. Greg wondered if this would be more or less awkward than complete silence. _Worth a try, either way_ , he thought.

“B4,” said Mycroft.

“Miss,” announced Greg. He took a slug of water before making his own guess.

“A miss,” Mycroft replied. “D8.”

“Another miss,” Greg said, deciding he would take that drink now that the buzz was wearing off a little. Mycroft watched him pour the wine, then offer the bottle across.

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied, waiting patiently until Greg was arranged again and ready to play. When Mycroft’s next guess was also a miss, he said quietly, “If you’re going to drink at each miss, Greg, they’ll be carrying you home.”

Greg looked at him, a little surprised at the personal comment. He could feel the amusement on his face and was sure Mycroft would be able to read it. “I’m not sure if you’re criticising my staying power or being self-deprecating about your own skill.”

“Neither,” Mycroft replied. “The statistical likelihood of a high number of misses, regardless of skill, makes a decision to drink at each miss a poor one.”

“Fair point,” Greg said. “I’ll drink to the memory of my fallen ships, should that happen, in that case.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Should that happen?” he repeated. “Now who’s criticising?”

“I’m just kidding, Mycroft,” said Greg, hoping he hadn’t actually insulted the man. That would be awkward.

“I know, Greg,” Mycroft said. “Shall we concentrate on the game?”

They did so, neither making any further comment, even when Mycroft joined Greg in drinking at the sinking of each ship on both sides. When the game ended after a surprisingly close bout, they had each only finished one glass, but Greg found himself far more relaxed than he had been.

“Do you know that’s the longest we’ve ever spent together without talking about your brother?” Greg told him. He looked over at Mycroft, allowed himself an indulgent glance at the long hands playing with the stem of his wine glass. He felt a sharp pang of regret, one he hadn’t felt in a long time. _No chance_ , the voice in his head whispered.

“Yes, it is,” Mycroft mused.

“Do you mind if I take off my tie?” Greg asked. “I can put it back on when we go, just seems silly to keep wearing it.”  
“Of course,” Mycroft said, making no move to loosen his own, even as Greg slid his tie out from under his collar, releasing the top two buttons as he did so.

“That’s better,” he said. “You’ll have to remind me to put that back on when we go.” He grinned, another cover for the mirth he didn’t feel. “Hate to scandalise the old boys with a glimpse of my grey chest hair.”

“Hardly scandalising, Greg,” Mycroft chastised him, “but they will appreciate you being fully dressed when you enter the public areas of the club.”

Greg’s eyebrows rose. “This is improperly dressed? Jesus, I’d hate them to see me bumming around at home. My old tracksuit pants have more holes than Swiss cheese.” His grin faded, and he picked up his water for something to look at. “Not that I’d be giving anyone a heart attack or anything.” The moment the self-pitying words were out he regretted him. _Way to angle for a compliment,_ Greg berated himself. _Jesus._

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft asked.

Greg took the opportunity to change the subject. “Nothing. Just complaining about being old. So, how did you get a membership here?” As segues went it was awful, but it did give them both an out to a very awkward conversation.

“The membership here is part of my employment package. Your comment made no mention of any age related complaints, Greg.”

Greg shrugged, wondering if Mycroft had missed the opening, the opportunity not to have this conversation. “Doesn’t matter.” Then, to his irritation (and he would always blame the wine for this comment), “Just something someone said recently.”

“Not my brother, I hope,” Mycroft said.

“No,” Greg replied, heartily regretting his comment. Why had he continued down this line of conversation? Why had Mycroft, for that matter? Resolutely Greg kept his mouth closed, waiting to see what Mycroft would say.

“Have…has someone expressed…dissatisfaction with your appearance recently?” Mycroft asked carefully. “I have noticed you appear to be less rested in the last few weeks,” he added. He looked hesitant, as though waiting for Greg to be offended at the carefully worded, though still personal, remark.

Greg winced. “Yeah, the Allenburg case had been a tough one. Nobody’s getting enough sleep on that one.”

 _Christ, I must look bloody awful if Mycroft Holmes is mentioning it_ , he thought. Pity I’m stuck with this face. He looked down at his water glass. The silence between them was different than it had been. Somehow, without meaning to, Greg had opened up a far more personal topic than they had ever discussed. Something in the atmosphere told him that the topic was still open; as he had waited for Mycroft earlier, now Mycroft was waiting for him to speak. He weighed his options, considered the comments Mycroft had already made.

“There hasn’t been anyone in a long time,” Greg said quietly. “Doesn’t seem that long ‘til I’m fifty.”

He knew there was a divide between his comments, but if anyone could read between the lines, it was Mycroft. Greg stole a glance upwards, his eyes darting back down when they met Mycroft’s speculative gaze.

“So can I assume,” Mycroft asked cautiously, “from your previous comments that you believe your advancing age will prevent you finding another long term partner?”

He had no way of knowing, but Greg suspected Mycroft was a similar age to himself. There had never been any indication Mycroft had a partner of any kind, but Greg didn’t want to offend Mycroft, or crush his hopes, if he had hopes in that direction. Tact was the way.

“Yeah,” he found himself saying, “I guess so.” He didn’t mention his resignation to the fading of his looks or softening of his body. This was enough for one pity party, thanks very much. “I mean, I know people can find a new partner, but…” he shrugged, “I don’t really see that happening for me.”

When Greg looked up, he saw Mycroft staring at him, the blank expression familiar. It was the ‘I’m processing something here, just give me a minute’ that appeared on the rare occasions Greg managed to surprise Mycroft. For several moments, Mycroft just blinked slowly at Greg, who sipped at his water, a little uncomfortable under the silence scrutiny.

“Am I correct in deducing,” Mycroft asked, his words as slow and careful as the blinking, “that you believe yourself to be unattractive?”

Having the words said out loud made Greg wince – harsh, having it put out there so baldly.

“I guess,” he replied, a hint of defensiveness audible in his tone. When Mycroft’s look did not change, Greg lost his nerve, speaking again instead of waiting for Mycroft to continue. “I mean, come on, I’m almost fifty, grey, plenty of battlescars, plenty of coffee and takeaways, hardly any football anymore.” He chuckled uneasily to cover his embarrassment at such an honest assessment of his view of himself. “Plus I work all the time and I’m usually a grumpy bastard. Hardly a catch.”

Still, Mycroft didn’t say anything. Greg was starting to wonder if he’d committed some kind of faux pas, being so open about all this. Maybe Mycroft was trying to find a tactful way to say that yes, he could find Greg a position in the Outer Hebrides if he wanted?

As Greg studied Mycroft, biting his own lip to prevent himself talking, he wondered if he saw something new. The expression on Mycroft’s face was changing from the blankness to something…genuine. His cheeks were flushing, lips parting a little, and Greg was certain he was doing that thing where you look at someone’s forehead to subtly avoid their eyes.

“Mycroft?” Greg asked. Fuck, just what he needed. In any other situation, he’d have taken his leave and hoped that by next time Mycroft would have forgotten this strangely intimate conversation. There was something in Mycroft’s demenour though. Not to mention the fact that sitting there with pink cheeks and lips parted, Mycroft was even more tempting than usual. Greg was used to ignoring his attraction, knowing the combination of British Government and Rough Copper would never fly, especially now he was barrelling down the other side of the proverbial hill.

Now, though, with Mycroft fairly speechless, he was able to look more closely under the guise of wondering what was wrong. Finally, though, Mycroft spoke.

“I disagree.”

The words were clear but quiet, and the moment they were spoken Mycroft’s cheeks darkened several shades until they were closer to red than delicate pink.

Without thinking, Greg snorted. “Yeah, right.” Was Mycroft taking the piss? Irritated, he asked the question. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you taking the piss, Mycroft?”

The smallest shake of his head, which then rose in a dignified tilt. “I am merely pointing out, that from the unbiased opinion of another person, you are an attractive person.”

Greg’s mouth hung open he knew it. “What?” he whispered. “Are you…you think I’m attractive?”

He knew disbelief was all over his face and in his voice, which was about right, because the rest of him was swamped with the same emotion. When Mycroft nodded in the affirmative, Greg wasn’t sure if he should laugh or…he didn’t really have an alternative. What the fuck was he supposed to do with that information? Did that mean Mycroft was attracted to him, or was it as strictly objective observation? If he had to choose one, he’d think the latter was far more likely.

“I can assure you I have observed multiple people assessing you and deciding you were pleasing to their eye. Additionally, you are considered to be pleasant company by a majority of acquaintances and colleagues.” The clinical words washed over Greg, and he found himself reading between the lines, much as he’d hoped Mycroft would do earlier.

“Is one of those people you?” Greg asked. His heart was in his throat as he spoke, forcing the words out, determined to see this unlikely conversation through.

A dozen thundering heartbeats marked the time, and he wondered if Mycroft would answer – or change the subject.

_Please, please answer. At least then I’ll know._

Slowly, so incrementally it was barely visible, Mycroft nodded, in control despite the ongoing flush.

 “I am pointing this out as an observational data set,” Mycroft told him. “I can see you are uncertain about my motivation, so allow me to be explicit. I am not sharing my observations with the expectation of any change to our satisfactorily functional relationship.”

Greg translated. “You’re not asking for a date.”

“Certainly not.”

“Certainly not because you don’t want a date, or because you don’t think I’ll want a date with you?”

The words were out before Greg even knew where they had come from. Some interviews were like that – his brain made leaps so fast that the right question was out of his mouth before he knew how he’d gotten there. This was the same – he could see by Mycroft’s face he hadn’t expected that response.

“The latter,” Mycroft admitted finally.

Greg looked at him, replayed parts of their conversation as he watched Mycroft. Now that he’d likened this to an interview, he had a better idea of how to progress. Pulling information out of a reluctant subject was his bread and butter, after all.

“You don’t think you’re attractive either, do you?” he asked finally. He knew Mycroft has phased it better, more fancy, but the question was the same in that he already knew the answer, just as Mycroft had. The slight shake of Mycroft’s head, along with the averted eyes and increased flush answered his question.

“Bloody hell,” Greg muttered. How could a man like Mycroft Holmes, a man who commanded so much power, whose skin above his collar hinted at pale expanses and a glorious collection of freckles, believe himself to be unattractive? He could read the A to Z in that low voice, when he was being all threatening-but-not-threatening, and Greg was pretty sure he’d wank for years on the memory of that sound.

“I assure you, the evidence is conclusive,” said Mycroft quietly. “It is a fact to which I have become quite accustomed. It is not something which upsets me at all.”

“What the hell do you mean?” Greg said.

 They stared at each other while Greg put it all together.

“You’ve never thought you were attractive, have you.”

Mycroft didn’t even have to answer, his wide eyes were answer enough.

“Christ, we are a pair,” Greg muttered, running one hand through his hair. Strangely, Mycroft still appeared to be struggling to make the connection.

“If I’m right,” Greg said slowly, “You are attracted to me, which quite frankly I find hard to understand.”

Mycroft nodded, his cheeks still pink.

“And I am attracted to you. That’s a statement, not a question,” he told Mycroft, whose mouth hung slightly open at the assurance. “Although you seem to have been under the impression that you’re not attractive for quite a while.”

Mycroft still hadn’t said anything. The disbelief in the air was palpable, and he knew it came from both of them. If it was anyone else, he might think they were taking the piss, but Mycroft was not exactly the pranking type. As he glanced back at Mycroft, he could see the slightly puzzled air had not dissipated.

“What?” Greg asked.

“Are you sure you are not…mistaken?” Mycroft asked, clearing his throat. “About your attraction.”

Greg looked at him, felt a nervous laugh bubble up. “Um, no. I mean yes.” He took a deep breath. “I am not mistaken, Mycroft.” From the look on Mycroft’s face, it would take more than that to convince him. “How do you know you’re not mistaken?” Greg shot the same question back to Mycroft. He watched as the other man shifted uncomfortably.

“I am certain of my emotional response,” Mycroft replied quietly but with conviction. They sat looking at each other, a kind of stand-off developing. Knowing Mycroft, Greg thought it would be a cold day in hell before he would make the first move. Given the revelation Mycroft had just shared, it seemed Greg had more experience in this, bizarre as this specific situation may be.

“There’s one simple way to test this,” Greg heard his voice tremble, though he held himself steady. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the physical signs of attraction.”

Mycroft nodded, and Greg spread his arms a little, an unspoken offer. Mycroft’s eyes were still on his, and Greg could almost hear his mind ticking as he considered the idea. Finally, he stood up, stepping over to within arms’ length of Greg. Greg rose too, stepping to the side, out of the way of the coffee table.

“Did you have something in mind?” Mycroft asked. Greg was pleased to see that he appeared nervous – pleased and slightly astonished. If he was nervous, it was because this mattered, which meant he was probably emotionally invested in the outcome…was he telling the truth?

“Whatever you think,” Greg replied, hoping his thumping heart wasn’t audible.

“What do you think would be a fair test?” Mycroft put it back on Greg. Standing so close in the darkened room, his eyes were difficult to read. The question had only one answer that Greg could think of.

“Kiss me,” he said quietly, bracing for Mycroft to back off. Surely, he would reconsider, say he was no longer sure.

But no, Mycroft was holding his ground, the bob of his Adam’s apple telling Greg he was preparing to follow directions. Hesitantly, Mycroft stepped forward, well into Greg’s personal space; the toes of their shoes brushed as his feet settled.

Greg steeled himself, much as he wanted to lean toward and away at the same time. He felt his heart beat faster, his breathing become more audible. He knew if Mycroft felt his pulse it would be racing; pupils would be wide anyway, because of the low light, but overall demenour was unmistakable.

One hand slid over his wrist, taking his pulse, as Greg had expected; he studied Mycroft’s face as he concentrated, the flicker of an eyebrow as he registered the speed with which Greg’s heart was beating. There was a sense that Mycroft was bracing to defend himself, as though he was waiting for an expected disappointment. The fingers gripped, pressing on Greg’s wrist before Mycroft’s other hand slid across his jaw, thumb stroking the skin in front of his ear.

Greg felt Mycroft’s fingers press against the shape of his skull, cupping his head, tilting his face up a little.

The blood was rushing in his ears now, senses tuned to Mycroft. The scent of his soap, aftershave, skin. His touch, firm and surprisingly cool. His breath, as rough as Greg’s, running a counterpoint to the beat pounding in his ears.

Even in the dim light, Greg marvelled at how close he was, eyes straining for the details he was now allowed to search for. Only taste was absent, and Greg felt his tongue dart out, licking his lips in anticipation, eyes skimming the shape of Mycroft’s mouth.

As he looked once again into Mycroft’s eyes he could see Mycroft had noticed his gaze move, eyes to lips and back again. Confusion as the data did not support his predetermined conclusion; with a shaking breath, Mycroft bent his head close, running his lips across Greg’s cheek, breath washing over sensitive skin. It was not possible to endure without the gasp Greg made at Mycroft’s touch; the warmth of his lips was so different to his cool fingers.

Greg’s eyes were closed, and he registered the roughness of Mycroft’s jacket clenched in his hands. He braced himself, predicting the light touch of lips tracing the line of his jaw, not kissing but learning the curve. There was no holding back when Mycroft bucked the expected, though, dropping his head to press his open mouth, hot and insistent against Greg’s throat. The groan rent from Greg’s throat was full and deep, genuinely surprised at the bolt of arousal that shot through his body, hot and sharp. Mycroft pulled back at the sound, any sound he might have made drowned by the roughness of Greg’s breath.

“Kiss me,” Greg repeated hoarsely, not caring if Mycroft was still testing, experimenting – surely he could see by now? To his immense relief Mycroft immediately pressed his lips to Greg’s. In case Greg still harboured any concerns, Mycroft moaned, stepping even closer and pulling Greg in.

Whatever residual disbelief might remain, the evidence of both their arousal was there, hard and insistent as their bodies pushed together. Greg’s attention was torn between the incredible kiss happening ( _lips, warm, wet, oh my God yes, is that tongue, tongue, God more_ ) and the rest of Mycroft’s body, under his hands and against his chest, his thighs, his groin. He knew his hands were roaming, he could feel Mycroft’s doing the same; they were both trying to achieve the same thing. Closer. Hips pressing together, which made the friction of sliding erections explode in sparks of sensation. The gasps and moans made the kissing messy and frantic, stubble rough skin now included in the slip of lips, the additional friction delicious and tantalising. When Greg grabbed at Mycroft’s hips, grinding them together with purpose, Mycroft threw his head back, breaking the kiss with a cry of bliss.

Greg froze, transfixed by the sight of Mycroft so taken apart. “Fuck,” he said.

His mind was whirling with sensation and elation and disbelief, still, at this incredible turn of events. Clearly Mycroft was interested in him, and just as clearly there was spark. More than spark, he thought as he eased back, his mind protesting the newly developed space between them. He kept his hands on Mycroft’s hips; the ginger head was still tilted back, eyes closed. Greg wasn’t sure Mycroft would stay upright without support until he exhaled long and slow, straightening his posture and opening his eyes to look at Greg. The room was still lit only with emergency lighting, leaving Greg to imagine the fine details of Mycroft’s expression.

“I’d say that’s a good start,” said Greg. He was half joking – that was neither ‘good’ nor ‘non definitive’. Mycroft’s expression was somewhere between bliss and astonishment, the not-quite-focus of arousal still evident even in the dim light.

Mycroft cleared his throat, looking away from Greg. Despite the lowered lighting, Greg could see Mycroft putting up his shutters, drawing in on himself.

“Interesting preliminary data,” Mycroft managed. When Greg released him, surprised at the clinical words, Mycroft took a half step back. Greg’s eyes raked Mycroft’s face, searching for answers. He was relieved to see the uncertainty still written there. Mycroft wasn’t pulling away; he didn’t trust ‘the data’.

“I know this is just one moment compared to what sounds like a lot of…other data,” said Greg carefully. He didn’t want to devalue Mycroft’s experience or pressure him. At the same time, he knew desire and sex, and this was it, in both directions. The hot thrill of it still seared his veins and pressed uncomfortably against his trousers.

“Someone told me something once that was totally hokey,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “but still kind of stuck with me.” He stopped, measuring Mycroft’s response. He was standing very still, eyes wary but watching Greg. His body had folded back into itself, retreated into its safe place.

Okay, then. Greg took a deep breath. “They said, ‘Every relationship you are in will fail, until one doesn’t.’ I know, it’s terrible. But I kind of think it means, you only need to find one person. Not ‘the one’, just one person. One person who’s right.”

Greg stopped, not entirely certain he’d said it exactly the way he’d meant to, but hoping the message had gone across, anyway. He could see Mycroft thinking again, the blank look back. Stepping back to give him some space, Greg poured himself some water, drinking it and pouring some for Mycroft. Their fingers brushed as the glass changed hands and Greg withheld a shudder. He waited while Mycroft sipped at the water.

“Very few people have been close enough for me to consider a relationship with them,” Mycroft said. “Early in my life it was made clear to me that my mind was a far more valuable commodity than my body.” His expression did not change as he spoke, even when Greg would have expected a half-arsed attempted smile. “The truth is, Greg, nobody has ever shown any level of genuine attraction to me.”

Greg noticed the word ‘genuine’ and resolved to track down and hurt those that made Mycroft admit there had been people cruel enough to pretend.

“I understand what you are trying to say, and I don’t mean to doubt your veracity. I think…I think it will take some time for me to be comfortable. With the possibility that you find me attractive.”

Greg wanted to protest the ‘possibility’ as ‘reality’ but knew that it was Mycroft still protecting what was showing itself to be a fragile ego indeed. Instead he smiled.

“Does that mean I can kiss you again?” he asked.

The apprehension slipped off Mycroft’s shoulders a little at the warm words, and he nodded. Greg stepped into him this time, keeping the kiss far more chaste than their earlier foray. It was relaxed and tender, and when Greg pulled away a little, reaching close to the limit of his control, he said, “Don’t go mistaking restraint for a lack of desire, by the way. I’m not going to rush into anything just because we’re both attracted to each other.”

“Restraint is all well and good,” Mycroft replied, still panting from the effects of the kissing, “but I’m not sure how much you need to show, actually.” He was blushing again, but looking at Greg still. Challenging was the best term Greg could come up with to describe his expression.

“I thought you said you’d not had a lot – or any – experience in relationships,” Greg asked him. It seemed like they were needing to have a frank discussion about this after all. Though his mind was still reeling at the very idea of Mycroft wanting him, Greg had at least been in a similar position – the object of his affection finally returning his affection. Someone needed to take the lead here.

“Greg,” Mycroft said steadily, “What I need is data. More evidence on the side of the affirmative. I am a consenting adult. I find you to be a trustworthy person.” He took a deep breath and added, “Show me, Greg.”


End file.
